


Concentric Circles, Ever Greater

by coldfiredragon



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Fireplaces, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Nobody Dies, Nudity, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Post-Canon Fix-It, Quentin goes to therapy, The finale ended differently, Trauma Recovery, Unhealthy Relationships, consensual but non-ethical polyamory, no beta we die like men, queliot, technically spoilers for 4x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 18:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19431898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldfiredragon/pseuds/coldfiredragon
Summary: In geometry, two or more objects are said to be concentric when they share the same center.-- or---Quentin figures he's the center, while Alice and Eliot are the circles, and Quentin realizes how unhappy it makes him.





	Concentric Circles, Ever Greater

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the VNV Nation song 'Perpetual' which is actually a really great song that fits the mood of this fic, so go give it a listen and marvel at the genius who is Ronan Harris! Worship him, guys! He deserves it!
> 
> In other news, I promise to get back to my normal ongoing fics as soon as possible. This one has been kinda eating my brain. 
> 
> Also my laptop battery is worthless, so I might as well have a stationary computer because it only works when its plugged into a wall outlet, which limits my time to write.

Going in Quentin had known that their arrangement was far from ideal. Eliot and Alice hadn't been what anyone could call 'friends' since the emotion bottle debacle. That they were even willing to entertain polyamory was what Quentin considered a miracle. He supposes that the only reason it's possible is that the pair bonded a little through shared grief while he'd been unconscious following his ill-advised 'minor mending' in the mirror realm. 

It's trippy to think about – how close he came to dying. It's probably a dream or hallucination, but Quentin distinctly remembers sitting in Penny 40's underworld office, watching a bonfire memorial, and accepting a metro card that would take him where he needed to go. Where he needed to go was right back where he'd come from, apparently, back to Earth and his found family, to Eliot, to Jules, and Alice. 

He'd woken up in one of the beds of a double hospital room after three days in a coma to find Julia at his bedside. A smattering of starburst burn scars covered parts of his arm, wooden shoulder, and his neck. When he'd glanced away from her, unable to hold her gaze, he'd found Eliot in the other bed, with Margo perched on the edge of a hard hospital chair at her best friend's side. As soon as Eliot had realized he was awake, he'd struggled out of his bed and into Quentin's. The taller man's forehead and rested against his temple. Quentin had snaked an arm around him, and they'd both cried as Eliot had whispered _' I love yous'_ and quiet apologies that Quentin hadn't really been of right mind enough to process. Eliot had fallen asleep tangled against him, much to Margo's vexation. 

When he'd woken up again, Eliot was still right beside him. His head had been clear enough to realize someone had enlarged the bed and the memory that Eliot had a massive abdominal wound and couldn't possibly be comfortable hit him like a truck. He shifted and gently carded his hand through the sweat-damp curls of Eliot's hair. Groggy amber eyes had fluttered open, then Eliot had leaned and kissed his mouth. 'I lied to you in the throne room. I love you, so fucking much.' 

'I love you too.' The gravity of Eliot's confession was still too much to process. Quentin had closed his eyes, content in Eliot's embrace, in having his best friend safe and free again, and gone back to sleep.

The third time he'd woken up, Alice had been in the room. Eliot was asleep alongside him, but someone, probably Margo, had gotten him to move long enough to clean up. His hair had gotten washed while Quentin had slept, and he'd swapped the hospital gown for loose silk pajama pants and a soft cotton t-shirt. Alice's whole face had been accusatory, and the reality of Eliot's confessions had made Quentin's breath catch. The truth that he'd been on the precipice of breaking someone's heart, maybe his own, had made him feel sick. He'd smoothed Eliot's hair back, then swung his legs out of bed. Alice had been silent but accommodating enough to help him to the bathroom.

'Alice...'

'Just don't.' Her voice had been strained. 'Focus on healing. You almost died.' She'd helped him back to bed, then left. Quentin had listened to the sound of her heels on the tile as she'd retreated. Julia had come back about twenty minutes later and muttered some choice words when she'd found her gone. Quentin had managed to stay awake for an hour and choke down water, and a bland sandwich before the nurse had brought his next round of pain medication, and he'd needed to sleep them off. 

The fourth time he'd been the only one in the bed. There was a frantic moment of panic in which he'd shot straight up to sit. Eliot had moved back to his side of the room, and Quentin could tell from the way the taller man was curled up that someone had told him the truth. Fifty years had taught him to read Eliot's mood. Eliot sprawled across a mattress when he was content, or cuddled to the person he shared with. When he curled with his back to you, something was wrong. He'd slipped out of bed, sat on the edge of Eliot's and reached for his best friend's shoulder, only to have Eliot flinch away from his fingers. Silence had hung between them. 

'Alice told me that the two of you are...' Eliot had trailed off. Quentin's throat had closed, and he'd felt trapped on an island while both of the bridges to the mainland burned on either side of him. For a moment he'd been angry. Furious at Eliot for rejecting him after the mosaic, pissed off at Alice for her betrayal with the keys and everything related to the timeshare spell, then alternatively mad at himself for not wanting to lose either of them. It was all so complicated. Quentin wished it wasn't complicated. 

Lipson had released both of them on the same afternoon a day later and going back to the penthouse had been its own special hell. Alice was the only one of the group not living there, but the rift between him and Eliot hadn't closed. Quentin had felt them all splintering. Kady had been focused on her hedges, Julia was furious at Penny, Margo was helicopter parenting Eliot to the point that even he was frustrated with her, and Quentin was just tired. When Julia had asked if he wanted to get a separate apartment for the two of them, he hadn't been able to say yes fast enough.

They had found a Brooklyn two-bedroom, filled it with Ikea furniture, and Quentin had started seeing a therapist of Lipson's recommendation when Julia pushed. It was nice having a magician to talk to, so he didn't have to lie to her. A week into their shared living venture, Eliot and Alice had shown up together with an olive branch to offer – that they were willing to make an effort. It hadn't been a good idea, but he'd been lonely and desperate enough for their company that he'd jumped at their suggestion. 

They have been dating for two months, and they have been two of the most arduous months that Quentin has ever lived through. He knows that part of it is due to the ridiculous levels of trauma he and Eliot had experienced. Both of them are in therapy, though, and thank gods, the need for Eliot's physical therapist is rapidly waning. The ax to the gut had taken longer to heal than any of them had expected, and the monster had fucked up one of Eliot's knees enough that it had required additional rehab. He'd only just replaced the cane with a knee brace this week. Quentin plays with the soft dark curls under his fingers and smiles at the content hum from his boyfriend. The movie they had rented is about forty minutes in, and Eliot's head lays pillowed in his lap.

“Bathroom, be back in a minute,” Eliot mumbles as he reluctantly sits and swings his legs down to the floor. His phone slides down along Quentin's thigh, and he's been gone about three minutes or so when it vibrates against Quentin's leg. He didn't mean to look when he moves it, but the screen is still lit, and there's a text notification from Alice. '20 minutes'. Quentin frowns and rests the device on the arm of the sofa as Eliot rejoins him. An arm slides around his shoulders, Eliot's feet prop on the coffee table in front of him, then Eliot reaches for the device and thumbs across the screen. His feet drop back to the floor. “I should get going.” 

“We're in the middle of a movie.” The annoyance is there, but its muted by a bone-deep weariness. 

“Yeah, well... I didn't realize how late it was. I'm supposed to meet Bambi so.” Eliot doesn't show him the text, but he's standing again and crossing the room to collect his coat and keys. The scarf he loops around his neck is long and soft; Quentin can't resist twisting it between his fingers when Eliot gets close enough to kiss him goodbye. Their foreheads rest together as Eliot cups the back of his neck. Fingers squeeze, then Eliot steps backward and heads for the door. It closes and locks as Quentin stares at the TV and the movie Eliot had paused. When a key scratches in the lock again, he realizes it has been precisely twenty minutes since Alice's message and a sick feeling twists in his gut. If this is his life now, choreographed avoidance and concentric circles, he doesn't want it. How had he not realized until now that Alice and Eliot wouldn't even share the same space? 

“What movie?” Alice asks as she drops onto the couch. There's a small distance between them, so unlike Eliot who would have immediately invaded his space to sit right against him. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches her hands smooth the bottom portion of her dress. Quentin reaches for the remote. 

“Doesn't matter.” He whispers. “Here. Pick something else.” 

“Is something wrong?” The answer builds in his throat, then Quentin clicks his teeth together and swallows it down. 

“No. We should order food.” The denial blooms from deciding that there's nothing to blame but his own self-sabotage. They order pizza and open a bottle of wine; Quentin watches the Netflix queue scroll past until Alice settles on something, then he makes popcorn. There's half an hour left in the movie when he stops it and stands. He tugs a hand back through his hair as he rubs at his eye with the other. A million half-formed thoughts are flying through his head, but he can't get any of them to slow down long enough so he can articulate them. 

“Q, are you okay?”

“No, it's my, it's a broken brain thing. I'm not good company tonight. I'm sorry. I know you just got here, but would you mind leaving? I'm sorry.” She stands, a concerned look on her face, a hand presses to his chest and Quentin hates himself a little when he takes a step back.

“Are you off your meds?” Quentin blinks at her in dumbfounded shock.

“Excuse me?” It's the last thing he'd expected. 

“You're acting really weird tonight. When is your next appointment?” Alice at least has the good sense to look sheepish. 

“I'm taking my meds; I have therapy with Nancy in the morning.” The words came out a little colder than Quentin had planned. Sue him. He shouldn't have to defend himself against something like that. He's trying, really fucking trying, and it feels like he's spinning his wheels. 

“Okay. But do you really want me to go?” 

“Yeah.” Quentin steps closer to her and kisses her cheek. “I'm sorry. Hopefully, I'll feel better after I have my session tomorrow.”

“Call me, okay? So we can figure out our next date night.” Quentin bites back on a nasty remark about how he's surprised she doesn't have it already planned to the minute. 

“G'night, Vix.” He murmurs as she gathers her things, then follows her to the door. The apartment feels silent and heavy in her absence, and he wanders back to his bedroom and sprawls on the bed with the lights off, his clothes on, and his face half mushed into the pillow. The door stands open, and he stares at the column of light that breaks across the room to impact the wall. Eventually, he dozes and wakes up when he hears the subtle sounds of Julia's entrance into their apartment's shared space. Her shadow finally blocks most of the light. 

“I thought you would have company tonight.” The bed dips beside him, and Quentin rolls to see her. The half-eaten bowl of popcorn is sitting in her lap. The fingers of her hand are soft as they rest against his cheek. 

“Did you know they won't even be in the same room?” A humorless giggle of disbelief bubbles from his chest. 

“Alice and Eliot?” 

“Yeah. They hate each other that much. Gods, how fucked up is that? They were the ones who offered to do this!” Julia sighs and her hand cups more firmly against his cheek. 

“Do you want me to call Eliot and see if he'll come over?” Quentin blinks his eyes closed and shudders. He'd love it if El came back. 

“I'm not sure he will.” He confesses quietly. It occurs to him with an earth-shattering abruptness that he misses Ari; Ari would have never let their situation turn into this. She'd nurtured and encouraged his relationship with Eliot. His wife had insisted on hyphenating Teddy's last name because she'd realized that Eliot was going to be just as important to her son as the two of them would be. 

“Q? Hey...” Julia's thumb ghosts over his cheek and Quentin feels it leave a trail of dampness in its wake. “It's going to work out. Somehow.” 

“Remember when my parents had split custody?” Quentin whispers. The first years following their divorce he'd shuffled between the pair at planned intervals, with his parents making minimal effort to communicate. They had orbited around him in precise circles. “This feels like that.” The constant stress had spiked his depression, and he'd eventually settled full time with his dad. Julia's fingers are a welcome weight as they comb his hair in repetitive strokes. 

“Maybe you need to make a similar choice.” Her voice is soft, and she's typing something into her phone with the hand not engaged with his hair. It's a diplomatic way of suggesting he tell one of his lovers, one of his closest friends, to go fuck themselves. Quentin loves her. 

“I love you, Jules.” He tells her. 

“It's not worth getting that depressed, Q. People you love don't deserve to bring you that low.” She brings a small handful of fluffy popped kernels to her mouth, and they sit in silence. Quentin listens to the soft crunch as she chews; he knows she's right. The bowl empties, and Julia sets it aside then rests her back against the headboard. They've been friends long enough not to need speech to comfort one another. Just her presence soothes the storm inside of him. He's almost asleep again when they hear the apartment door and the soft jingle of keys. Julia's hand pets through his hair a couple more times before she gets up. Whatever gets said is said too far away to hear without magic.

Eliot's shadow extends farther than Julia's, and Quentin breathes a sigh of relief. Neither of them speaks as Eliot strips down to his boxers and the brace on his knee. He smells like cigarettes and wine, and maybe patchouli.

“Why are you still dressed, Baby?” He murmurs after he's crawled into bed. Long fingers unbutton the fly of Quentin's jeans then his pants are tugged off with Eliot's telekinesis. It's not sexy or seductive, and Quentin is more comfortable with them gone. Silently he presses into Eliot's form, front to front, his face buried against Eliot's chest and Eliot's hand pressed against his back. They sleep.

When morning coaxes him to wakefulness, he's alone with his nose buried in Eliot's pillow. A groan works free from his throat, and Quentin swings his legs out of bed. He trots into the hall to use the bathroom and, to his relief, hears both Eliot and Julia in the kitchen. The smell of bacon grease and melted butter makes his mouth water. The Bluetooth in the kitchen is on, and Quentin listens to Madonna through the bathroom door as he does his business then brushes his teeth. His meds are divided out in a little tray on the counter.

Eliot and Julia are voguing in the kitchen. Bright sunlight floods the space as sausage warms on the stove-top and bacon crisps in the oven. There's a bowl of french toast batter on the countertop, and a quartet of slices are browning in Julia's largest skillet. A preservation charm shimmers over the platter that is already finished. Quentin watches them dance and feels warms inside, comforted by the random goofiness on display before him. 

“Q!” Eliot sweeps a glass off the counter and tilts it against his lips. Mimosa floods across his tongue until Quentin takes the drink and tips it back. He has enough time to swallow before Eliot kisses him.

“Morning.” He chirps. He rarely feels this good. 

“So there's breakfast.” Eliot gestures to his handiwork like it weren't visible. 

“I see that.” Eliot hums happily and kisses him again. 

“Therapy at 11?” Quentin nods, pleased with the contrast of Eliot knowing when Alice hadn't. It's possible Eliot had looked it up on his calendar, but Quentin wants to believe that the details are more internalized than that. “Want me to walk you to Nancy's office?” Quentin nods again; his fingers rest against Eliot's hips. There's still a leanness to him from the monster's inability to maintain a healthy diet. He doesn't let anyone go into Nancy's office with him, but its become a regular thing to be dropped off and sometimes met after. 

“That would he nice.” Eliot's nose rests in his hair and hugs him. It's probably paranoia, but the embrace seems a little tighter and more desperate than the situation warrants. 

“Breakfast, you two.” Julia has rescued the last four slices and is carrying the plate to the black Lisabo table surrounded by four white Odger chairs. She watches them expectantly. Eliot grins and pecks a kiss against his mouth. Across the room, the oven door falls open, and the bacon tray flies free. It upends itself neatly on one side of a platter; which the sausages fill a moment later. Quentin sits, and he and Julia clap as Eliot fills champagne flutes from the pitcher of mimosa he'd made while Quentin was still asleep. There's something domestic about it, modern and intimate in a way that's entirely different from the life they'd shared during the mosaic quest. 

They eat, Quentin showers, and they finish the movie from the night before. Eliot builds the portal that deposits them in an alley a few blocks from Nancy's office. 

“Your knee seems like it's healing well.” Eliot's hands shove into the pockets of the black slacks he's wearing. 

“It's doing alright.” Something is bugging him. Quentin has known him long enough to read all the non-verbal tells. “We should talk about that.” 

“What's wrong with your knee?” 

“Nothing! Almost nothing, it's good. My therapist thinks I won't need the brace in a couple of weeks.” 

“That's great. I mean, you've been doing everything he tells you. Right?”

“Yeah.” They walk in silence for a block. It's chilly, and the wind billows Eliot's scarf in artful trails of color like banners behind him. Quentin can see his therapist's building. 

“El?” It's a prompt, gentle challenge. He's about to head into therapy. If Eliot has a bomb to drop now seems like as good a time as any. Eliot's shoulders fall, he stops walking. “You can tell me.” 

“I don't want to pressure you by making ultimatums.” Quentin swallows, even though his mouth suddenly feels dry. “But Margo wants me to go back to Fillory. She's talked about it for a month, and she thinks that once I finish my therapy it will be a good time.” The world tilts; Quentin finds himself staring at Eliot's shoes. 

“I really don't want to go back right now. I like Nancy, and my life is just getting back on track.” His eyes shift up to Eliot's face, but Eliot refuses to meet his gaze. 

“You're not invited, Quentin.” Eliot fishes out his pack of cigarettes; his fingers shake as he tries to light one. This is a carefully worded euphemism for _'My best friend wants me to break up with you.'_

“Is that what you want? _'To go to Fillory?'_ ” Quentin can't voice the words any more than Eliot can. 

“Not really, maybe. More than I did when Bambi first suggested it.” 

“Do you still love me?” The words are whisper soft and almost stolen by the wind. 

“Fuck you, Quentin!” Eliot tosses the cigarette in rage, and it smokes against the sidewalk. “You know the answer!” Eliot tuts and the butt disappears. Big hands grab his shoulders and squeeze. “You know that answer, right?” The print of Eliot's shirt blurs a little. 

“I miss Ari, El.” 

“Q...” Long arms circle him, and Quentin buries his face. “Alice is never going to be Ari, Q. It's not the same.” Quentin knows that. He knows. Eliot and Arielle hadn't tried to exist as concentric circles, orbiting one another but never touching. The three of them had been a family, and there had been moments where it was messy, even horrible, but they had all been friends. There had been mutual love and affection in spades. When she had died, it had cut at Eliot just as profoundly as it had him.

“Thank you for telling me.” He's going to be late for his session. “Nancy's waiting.” He murmurs.

“Do you want me to meet you after?” 

“If you want.” Quentin shrugs. 

“I want.” Eliot's fingers trail across his cheek. An apology is written in the lines of his face, in his eyes, the tilt of his mouth. Quentin kisses his palm. 

“Okay. I need to go in.” When he gets upstairs to her office, he doesn't say a word about the possibility that his boyfriend is about to leave him. What Quentin talks about instead is his wife and husband from an erased timeline and how their relationship had been a mix of circles, triangles, and squares, a mishmash of crisscrossing lines. He tells her how it had been both messy and marvelous, exhausting and sublime. The comparison to his parents' parental custody arrangement gets made, and they tangent away from his relationship drama to talk about how his mom blames him for breaking things. They talk about how he feels like that's all he's doing now. 

It's drizzling when he steps out of Nancy's building to find Eliot waiting with an umbrella. The weight of Eliot's arm across his shoulder is comforting and he loops his arm around Eliot's waist so they can stand close. Water drums off the curved tarp above their heads and drips down onto the sidewalk. They splash through a puddle and water seeps up the ankles of their pants; it soaks into Quentin's socks enough to make him grimace in annoyance. 

“I hate wet socks.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the faint upward curve of Eliot's mouth. He'd complained often about the rain getting through his clothes during the mosaic until they had found ways to cast permanent canopy spells to keep it mostly dry. 

“We'll have to light the fireplace when we get back. Despite the dampness, Quentin's toes curl in delighted anticipation. The best thing about the tiny two bedroom is the fireplace. Thinking about it puts a little spring into his step, enough of one that it doesn't bother him when additional cold water soaks through his shoes and wicks into his socks. They get back, and Quentin sits on the floor while Eliot stacks logs and adds paper, then uses a Bic multi-purpose lighter to set the paper aflame. Both of them can get a fire started the hard way, but Eliot had always made them better. Quentin stretches his feet towards the warmth and grins when Eliot peels the sodden socks off his feet. They float away, presumably to his laundry hamper, as the pair of them lounge together on the floor with the couch cushions propped under their heads. Outside the sky is gray and rain patters harder against the windows. 

“We need wine,” Quentin tells him after a few minutes. 

“Absolutely, yes, we do.” A bottle and two glasses float to them, and they sit as Eliot uncorks the wine with a tut. “Are we drinking to anything?” Quentin thinks about the possibility of Eliot going back to Fillory. There's nothing worth celebrating in the light of that. 

“I don't think so.” Quentin twists and rests his hand on Eliot's hip, then kisses him. They are down to a fourth of a bottle their pants are open, and they have gotten into some pretty heavy petting when the tone of Alice's ring chimes on Quentin's phone. 

“Are you going to answer that?” 

“I should.” Quentin kisses him again and lets the call go to voicemail. It rings again ten minutes later. 

“Q.” Eliot pushes him back. “Answer your damn phone.” The device slides into Quentin's hand and he thumbs across the screen. 

“Hey.” He watches Eliot empty the bottle as he tops off their glasses.

“Q? I thought you were going to call after your session today. How did it go?” 

“We talked a lot about my mom about how their divorce affected me.” 

“Oh, well, if you want company we can share shitty parents stories.” 

“El's here now, but later tonight. I guess. Tell me what time.” A dangerous idea is forming in his mind. It's probably going to explode in his face. 

“I don't know, six?” 

“That's fine.” Quentin picks up his wine glass. “I'll see you then.” He murmurs. 

“What time did she say?” The firelight reflects off Eliot's long fingers as he scrolls through his phone. 

“6:30.” Quentin swallows more wine. Gods, this is going to blow up in his face. He knows it. His fingers push at Eliot's knee until it's mostly flat. “Lie back; we have a couple of hours.” The urge to go big is making him feel bold, and he swings his leg over Eliot's hips. He tugs the phone out of Eliot's hand, puts it in airplane mode, does the same with his, and slides both devices under the coffee table and out of their immediate reach. “So we aren't interrupted again.” His fingers trail down the buttons of Eliot's vest, then his button-down shirt.  
.   
“Julia could come home.” 

“She and Kady have plans tonight, some hedge-witch thing.” 

“So we're living dangerously?” The blinds slide closed, and the lights go out. Quentin pushes the open garments down Eliot's arms, enjoying how his shadow contrasts with the firelight on Eliot's skin. It feels like there's a storm brewing inside him to match the one outside. Living dangerously feels like a mild way of putting it. 

“Uh huh.” He pushes at Eliot's shoulders until Eliot's flat on his back, with a throw pillow under his head, his dark curls spread across it. Eliot's stubble is rough against his lips when he kisses down his jaw. How could Eliot even think about going back to Fillory when they could have this, a semblance of their beautiful mosaic life complete with modern conveniences? Long fingers dance up his back, then push at his shirt, like always Quentin gets caught up in the neck and sleeves when he struggles free from it. There's an adoring grin on Eliot's face when he finally tosses it away. “I love you, El.” 

“I love you too.” Eliot's hand slides down his back then into the open gap of his jeans and over the globe of his ass. 

“Brat.” 

“How do you want me?” 

“Just like this.” Quentin tugs Eliot's slacks down until they are at mid-thigh. “Little help, Baby?” He murmurs. Eliot laughs and casts, their remaining clothes gone in an instant. Quentin hears a shuffle and rattle from his bedroom then a tube of lubricant shoots down the hall. “So helpful.” Quentin praises as he shifts position until he's between Eliot's legs instead of on top of him, then his lips are busy as he kisses the underside of Eliot's jaw. The trail travels from his jaw, down his neck, over his collarbone, and down his chest. Quentin takes a full minute to swirl his tongue around Eliot's nipple, until Eliot's hand grips in his hair and guides his mouth sideways to the other. The scar across Eliot's abdomen still makes Quentin's heart feel like it's stopped beating; it's vivid proof of how close they came to losing him. They should have been more careful, aimed for Eliot's shoulder, or thigh. 

“Turn off your brain, Q. I'm okay.” Quentin blushes a little; he hadn't meant to stare.

“Right.” An abandoned throw pillow is within arm's reach, and Quentin offers up a silent apology to Julia before groping for it and shoving it under Eliot's hips to make up for the hardness of the floor. His mouth sinks onto Eliot's dick as he slicks his fingers and starts to open the other man up. Eliot's voice alternates between whispered praises and appreciative noises that get louder as Quentin slides in more fingers. 

“Q!” Quentin pulls his mouth off with a wet pop, kisses Eliot's stomach then positions himself. His arms hook under Eliot's knees for leverage. He loves it when Eliot lets him take him to pieces. The heat from the fire is warm on his back and his fascinated by how Eliot moves from him, by the way his neck arches and his back bends, with how his heels dig into his back. Quentin does his best to draw it out, to tire both of them to the point that they just collapse together when they are finished. When it's over, he tuts away the mess and rests his cheek against Eliot's chest. The throw blanket from the couch drops over their hips and Quentin lets the drum of Eliot's heart lure him to sleep. 

They both must sleep because the next thing Quentin hears is the scratch and turn of Alice's key in the lock. His ruse to force them together has worked even more organically than he'd planned. The fire has died down, and Quentin has to squint at her face as her form looms over the back of the couch. It's an eerily familiar position to find himself in, on the cusp of wakefulness, tangled against Eliot's naked body, with Alice staring disapprovingly at the two of them. All that's missing is Margo. During his first year, waking up like this had sparked a panic. It had almost cost him Eliot, and he's not going to make that mistake twice. Alice doesn't get to look at them like this – angry, and disappointed, like her worldview has been shattered. He and Eliot aren't a secret. It drives home how unworkable their arrangement truly is. There's no future in it, at least not one where he sees himself happy. Quentin remembers asking Poppy if her baby had been his and being told no. He does want kids one day, but with the right person, and he seriously doubts that Alice would embrace the idea of her son or daughter being a Coldwater-Quinn-Waugh. 

“Alice.” Her name is sleep slurred as Quentin rolls, careful of Eliot's injured knee. He finds his jeans and stands to pull them up. “We fell asleep.” It's not a lie; he'd been worried he'd have to lie. 

“I thought he'd be gone.” 

“Shit, how is this my fucking life?” The soft mutter from Eliot as he curls more tightly under the blanket makes Quentin feel bad. Eliot's phone zips out from under the coffee table, and Quentin hears the buzz of an incoming text message once Eliot changes the settings. He wonders if the text messages go both ways or if they are only from Alice. “I'll get my shit together.” Eliot murmurs as he sits. He's close enough for Quentin to drop his fingers and play with his hair. There's a sadness in his amber eyes when he looks up, then Eliot's face drops and his cheek rests against Quentin's knee. 

“We need to talk, Alice.” Quentin is rather proud that his volume stays even, that his voice doesn't waver. He offers a hand, so Eliot doesn't have to struggle against his knee to get up. Alice's back turns to them as Eliot pulls on his slacks, then she walks into the kitchen. 

“I'll see you when I see you,” Eliot whispers. The buttons of his shirt come together in rapid succession, with the ease of practiced telekinesis. Quentin grabs Eliot's hand and squeezes it before he can step away. 

“Don't go to Fillory. Promise me!” 'Don't give up on us. Don't leave me.' 

“Seriously?” Quentin nods. He can't take the risk that Eliot might age a year, or five, or ten. A hand slides around his neck, then he's swooped into a kiss that's partially supported by Eliot's magic. 

“Promise me?” Quentin implores. 

“Promise. No Fillory, Margo's got Josh to keep her company.” Eliot lets him go, then quickly gathers his things. “Call me. Let me know how it goes.” Quentin follows him to the door to twist the lock. 

“You meant it when you told me we were done, didn't you?” Alice asks as he enters the kitchen. The image of Eliot and Julia from the morning superimposes over his eyes for a moment. 

“Yes.” Quentin clears his throat with a cough. 

“I knew what I wanted. You're still my friend, Alice. If we can still be friends. What I know is that we can't be this.”

“You really love him.” 

“I'd do anything for him.” It's a declaration of more than words; he'd lived it out when he'd coddled the monster and made demands that put his safety at risk. “I've loved him since the key quest, Alice. The depth of that feeling is never going to change.” He has to impress the absolute finality of this decision on her now so she can move on with her life. 

“It sucks, Q!” 

“I know. I'm sorry. I should never have put you in this situation. I should have told you that day in the hospital. You deserve better than me. You always did.” 

“You're still the best thing that happened to me. You were my first friend that wasn't Charlie.” 

“I think that's how we've always worked best, Alice. We need to take some time, then come back together and try to salvage what we're best at.” She's crying, and Quentin takes a hesitant step toward her, giving her time to tell him through word or action that she doesn't want the comfort he's willing to offer. After another step, she melts into his embrace and sniffs. 

“My mom always thought you were too high maintenance anyway,” Alice whispers. For some reason, it makes Quentin snort with laughter. That sounds on brand for Stephanie. 

“Our moms are real assholes, huh?” They step apart, and Alice wipes at her eyes. 

“You should call Eliot and tell him the good news.” 

“I did before he left.” They step farther apart; Alice hugs herself.

“He loves you too right? As much, more, than you love him? It's going to work out for the two of you?”

“We have proof of concept. He loves me; El's my best friend.” She nods and backs towards the apartment door. “Don't cut yourself off, Alice. Julia, Penny, Kady all our my friends are still your friends, okay? Nobody has to pick sides.” She nods again, a look that might be gratitude shifts across her features. 

“Call Eliot back.” It sounds like an order; then she's turning and reaching for the lock. Quentin hears her key, then a moment later it slides under the door. A breath of relief escapes his throat, with it he feels freer than he has in weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are love! 
> 
> Also, I apologize for the present tense. For some reason my brain is hooked on that right now.


End file.
